"A salute in your honor, my dear," said Thinkright, climbing in beside her. "I'm delighted," she answered, as the horses started, "for it means showers instead of a three days' rain. Here, let's take the calico tent," she added, "then we can both get under it." She put her little umbrella under the rubber laprobe, and, raising the weather-beaten canopy, slipped her arm through Thinkright's. "I'm going to paint such a lovely picture of you this summer, dear," she said, studying his face fondly. "Of me? Oh, no." "Oh, yes. I won't admit that any one else can paint such a likeness of you as I can." "I hear good reports of your work." "My own reports?" she laughed. "No. Calvin's, Edna's, Mr. Dunham's." "John's, Mr. Dunham's?" Thinkright's answer was rather slow in coming, she thought. "Yes. We've had occasion for some correspondence on a matter of business, and he has mentioned your promise." "My promise to what?" asked Sylvia, suddenly interested in the fastening of the umbrella. "The promise shown in your work," replied her companion, looking steadily between the horse's ears. "Oh, yes," returned Sylvia in a small voice. "You were a little mistaken about that match you had fixed up," said Thinkright, "between Edna and Mr. Dunham, weren't you?" "Yes; and she's going to marry such a fine man, so worthy of her in every way!" Sylvia spoke with enthusiasm. "You're better pleased than if it had been Dunham?" asked Thinkright. It was his companion's turn to hesitate. "Oh, she didn't ask my advice," she replied at last, with elaborate lightness. "It's rather easy to make mistakes about those matters," observed Thinkright.